De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Robert Bly werd geboren op 23 december 1926 in Madison, Minnesota. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Bly op dit blog.

Snowfall in the Afternoon

1
The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon
And now the little houses of the grass are growing dark.

2
If I reached my hands down near the earth
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness was always there which we never noticed.

3
As the snow grows heavier the cornstalks fade farther away
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.

4
The barn is full of corn and moves toward us now
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many years.

The Hermit

Darkness is falling through darkness
Falling from ledge
To ledge.
There is a man whose body is perfectly whole.
He stands the storm behind him
And the grass blades are leaping in the wind.
Darkness is gathered in folds
About his feet.
He is no one. When we see
Him we grow calm
And sail on into the tunnels of joyful death.

At Midocean

All day I loved you in a fever holding on to the tail of the horse.
I overflowed whenever I reached out to touch you.
My hand moved over your body covered
With its dress
Burning rough an animal's hand or foot moving over leaves.
The rainstorm retires clouds open sunlight
sliding over ocean water a thousand miles from land.

  
Robert Bly (Madison, 23 december 1926)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Norman Fitzroy Maclean werd geboren op 23 december 1902 in Clarinda, Iowa. Zie ook alle tags voor Norman Maclean op dit blog.

Uit:A River Runs Through It

“The four-count rhythm, of course, is functional. The one count takes the line, leader, and fly off the water; the two count tosses them seemingly straight into the sky; the three count was my father's way of saying that at the top the leader and fly have to be given a little beat of time to get behind the line as it is starting forward; the four count means put on the power and throw the line into the rod until you reach ten o'clock—then check-cast, let the fly and leader get ahead of the line, and coast to a soft and perfect landing. Power comes not from power everywhere, but from knowing where to put it on. "Remember," as my father kept saying, "it is an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o'clock."
My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things—trout as well as eternal salvation—come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.

 
Scene uit de film van Robert Redford uit 1992 met o.a. Brad Pitt

So my brother and I learned to cast Presbyterian-style, on a metronome. It was mother's metronome, which father had taken from the top of the piano in town. She would occasionally peer down to the dock from the front porch of the cabin, wondering nervously whether her metronome could float if it had to. When she became so overwrought that she thumped down the dock to reclaim it, my father would clap out the four-count rhythm with his cupped hands.”

 
Norman Maclean (23 december 1902 – 2 augustus 1990)

De Franse dichter, schrijver en essayist Marcelin Pleynet werd geboren op 23 december 1933 in Lyon. Zie ook alle tags voor Marcelin Pleynet op dit blog.

Uit:Comme la poésie la peinture

“Lorsque Apollinaire et Picasso se rencontrent, en 1905, le poète ne peut pas ne pas être pourvu d’une aura romanesque. Né d’une mère polonaise (fille d’un émigré qui, installé à Rome, obtint, fin 1866, la charge de camérier d’honneur de cape et d’épée à la cour papale) et d’un père noble (mais qui ne le reconnaîtra pas), François Flugi d’Aspermont, ancien officier d’état-major du roi des Deux-Siciles, le jeune Apollinaire, après diverses pérégrinations en Italie, passera son enfance à Monaco où sa mère est une assidue du casino. Inscrit au collège Saint-Charles, Apollinaire reçoit une éducation religieuse. Il fait sa première communion le 8 mai 1892, il est secrétaire de la Congrégation de l’Immaculée Conception. Apollinaire, son frère et sa mère vivent à Monaco jusqu’en 1898. À cette date, la famille quitte Monaco, et toujours entraînés dans le sillage de leur mère, les deux garçons séjournent à Aix-les-Bains, Lyon, Paris qu’ils quitteront en juillet 1899 (Mme de Kostrowitzky ayant décidé de tenter fortune au casino de Spa) pour y revenir sans argent quatre mois plus tard.
Lorsque, en 1905, Apollinaire rencontre Picasso, il a vécu (et quelle vie !) à Rome, Monaco, puis, jeune homme, en Allemagne, à Berlin, Dresde, Prague, Vienne, Munich, Londres, Paris...”

 
Marcelin Pleynet (Lyon, 23 december 1933)

De Hongaarse schrijver Iván Mándy werd geboren op 23 december 1918 in Boedapest. Zie ook alle tags voor Iván Mándy op dit blog.

Uit: God

“I've been getting ready for our chat a long time. Sometime, somewhere we'll sit down together. Maybe at a table in an old café. (There must still be a table like that somewhere!) In a quiet little tavern. Maybe on a terrace around the end of summer or in the fall. At such times the weather is cooler, and maybe no other guests will turn up besides ourselves. In a movie vestibule. Under a deserted football stand. On a secluded back pew in a church on the outskirts of town. Maybe we'll bump into each other on the street. Two passersby. Two rather weary passersby who even so keep expecting something.
It'll make no difference where. He won't turn away. He'll recognize the child who prayed so fervently. The praying stopped suddenly, but He won't be terribly angry about that. Silence is still more bearable than rattling off lessons in meaningless repetition. Silence can always bring forth something worthy.
But maybe now we might break the silence. It's certain I'd begin with some stupid complaint. My lament would be a faint melody. What if He took a crack at it!
I wouldn't ask Him anything. I wouldn't grill Him about wars, plagues, famine, floods. If He wants to say something, let Him say it on His own.
Just so He doesn't want to put my fears to rest, because then I'll...
Is it possible we'd quarrel? That a big fight is in the air that could suddenly explode? That wouldn't be such a great problem either. I can have a real good fight only with those I love.
But there is something I'd ask Him, after all.
His humor, what's happened to it?
What a sense of humor He had! He created the braying of Balaam's ass before Balaam's ass. Joseph's coat before Joseph himself.
I say, I'd ask Him this. Otherwise, I'd leave Him in peace. Just let Him sit at the table in the café, in the tavern, on the terrace, in the movie vestibule, under the football stand, in the church on the outskirts.
If He doesn't want to talk, I'll understand that too.
After a time we'll say goodbye. He'll go his way, and I'll go mine.”

 
Iván Mándy (23 december 1918 – 26 oktober 1995)
Portret door Szinte Gábor, 1979

De Nederlandse dichter-dominee Jan Jakob Lodewijk ten Kate werd geboren op 23 december 1819 in Den Haag. Zie ook alle tags voor J.J.L. ten Kate op dit blog.

Het Onze Vader

Onuitspreeklijk Opperwezen,
Die voor ons een Vader zijt!
U zij eeuwig lof gewijd,
Eeuwig worde Uw naam geprezen!
Al wat leeft valle U te voet,
Driemaal heilig, driemaal goed!

Kome Uw rijk, o grote Koning!
En geschiede Uw wil alom,
Boven in Uw Heiligdom,
Hier in aller mensen woning,
Tot dit aardse schaduwdal
Als Uw Hemel worden zal!

Geef ons brood en kracht ten leven,
Gij, die alle nood vervult!
En vergeef ons onze schuld,
Zo als wij elkaar vergeven!
Voed ons harte met Uw Geest;
Leer ons lieven allermeest!

Leid ons, macht- en krachtelozen,
Geen verzoeking te gemoet!
Maar beveilig onze voet,
En verlos ons van de Boze!
Want U is in eeuwigheid
't Rijk, de Kracht, de Majesteit!

Vouwen wij de handen samen,
't Is in naam van Uwe Zoon,
Dat wij naadren tot Uw troon,
Dat wij vrolijk zeggen: ‘Amen!
Amen! dit, o Hemelheer,
Geeft Gij ons, en - eindloos meer!’

 
J.J.L. ten Kate (23 december 1819 - 24 december 1889)
Borstbeeld in het Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

De Britse schrijver Tim Fountain werd geboren op 23 december 1967 in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire. Zie ook alle tags voor Tim Fountain op dit blog.

Uit:Icons: Quentin Crisp

„His line: “Ask yourself, if there were no praise and no blame, who would I be then?” will echo down the ages. Sadly, Crisp never saw Resident Alien, as he died on his way to London to have tea with Bourne during the show’s first run in 1999. I regret this, because I think he’d have recognised that he could have had no finer representative on earth than Bourne. The show went on to be a big success in London and New York (where Bourne won an Off-Broadway Theatre Award for his performance) and it played just two blocks round the corner from Crisp’s old flat.
So what was it that made him unique? I think in the end it was because, as his friend performance artist Penny Arcade said, “he grew up to be himself”. And, warts and all, perhaps that’s the greatest thing any of us can hope to achieve.”

 
Tim Fountain (Dewsbury, 23 december 1967)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 23e december ook mijn blog van 23 december 2012 deel 2 en eveneens eveneens deel 3. 

23-12-2013 om 19:04 geschreven door Romenu  

De Amerikaans schrijfster Donna Tartt werd geboren in Greenwood, Mississippi, op 23 december 1963. Tartt studeerde samen met onder anderen auteur Brett Easton Ellis klassieke talen en filosofie aan het Bennington College in Bennington (Vermont). In 1992 debuteerde ze met de roman "The Secret History" (“De verborgen geschiedenis”), over 6 studenten klassieke talen, die op zoek gaan naar de vervoering, die door Euripides beschreven werd in zijn toneel 'Bakchai'. Hierin wordt meermaals verwezen naar de roes die de maenaden, de vrouwelijke volgelingen van Dionysos, bereiken en waarin ze dieren verscheuren, geslachtsgemeenschap hebben en dergelijke meer in een uitzinni ge staat van bewustzijn. Dit boek leverde Tartt veel lovende kritieken op en de verwachtingen stonden hoog gespannen voor haar tweede boek. Dit verscheen in 2002, "The Little Friend" ("De Kleine Vriend"). In 2004 verscheen een kort verhaal, "Sleepytown: A Southern Gothic Childhood, with Codeine" ("Het Land Van De Papaver"). De in 2013 verschenen roman “Het puttertje” kreeg de wereldpremière in de Nederlandse vertaling. Een tweede Nederlands element van de roman is dat het schilderij “Het puttertje“van Carel Fabritius er een rol in speelt en is afgebeeld op de omslag.

Uit: The Little Friend

“For the rest of her life, Charlotte Cleve would blame herself for her son's death because she had decided to have the Mother's Day dinner at six in the evening instead of noon, after church, which is when the Cleves usually had it. Dissatisfaction had been expressed by the elder Cleves at the new arrangement; and while this mainly had to do with suspicion of innovation, on principle, Charlotte felt that she should have paid attention to the undercurrent of grumbling, that it had been a slight but ominous warning of what was to come; a warning which, though obscure even in hindsight, was perhaps as good as any we can ever hope to receive in this life.
Though the Cleves loved to recount among themselves even the minor events of their family history–repeating word for word, with stylized narrative and rhetorical interruptions, entire death-bed scenes, or marriage proposals that had occurred a hundred years before–the events of this terrible Mother's Day were never discussed. They were not discussed even in covert groups of two, brought together by a long car trip or by insomnia in a late-night kitchen; and this was unusual, because these family discussions were how the Cleves made sense of the world. Even the cruelest and most random disasters–the death, by fire, of one of Charlotte's infant cousins; the hunting accident in which Charlotte's uncle had died while she was still in grammar school–were constantly rehearsed among them, her grandmother's gentle voice and her mother's stern one merging harmoniously with her grandfather's baritone and the babble of her aunts, and certain ornamental bits, improvised by daring soloists, eagerly seized upon and elaborated by the chorus, until finally, by group effort, they arrived together at a single song; a song which was then memorized, and sung by the entire company again and again, which slowly eroded memory and came to take the place of truth”

 
Donna Tartt (Greenwood, 23 december 1963)

23-12-2013 om 00:00 geschreven door Romenu  

De Engelse dichteres, schrijfster en vertaalster Sara Coleridge werd geboren op 23 december 1802 in Greta Hall, Keswick, als derde kind van Samuel Taylor Coleridge en zijn vrouw Sarah Fricker. In het huis woonden, na 1803, de Coleridges , Robert Southey en zijn vrouw ( mevrouw Coleridge 's zus) en Mrs Lovell (andere zuster), weduwe van Robert Lovell, de dichter allemaal samen, maar Coleridge was vaak van huis. In 1822 publiceerde Sara Coleridge een vertaling in drie grote delen van Martin Dobrizhoffers “An Account of the Abipones, an Equestrian People of Paraguay.” In september 1829, na een verloving van zeven jaar trouwde Sara Coleridge met haar neef Henry Nelson Coleridge. De eerste acht jaar van haar huwelijksleven woonden zij in een klein huisje in Hampstead, waar vier van haar kinderen werden geboren. In 1834 publiceerde Coleridge haar “Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children.” In 1837 verhuisde de Coleridges naar Chester Place, Regents Park en in hetzelfde jaar verscheen “Phantasmion, a Fairy Tale” het langste originele werk van Coleridge. De liederen in Phantasmion werden destijds veel bewonderd door Leigh Hunt en andere critici. In 1843 overleed Henry Coleridge waardoor zijn weduwe voor de taak kwam te staan de werken van haar vader te redigeren. Zij voegde er enkele werken van zichzelf aan toe, waaronder het “Essay on Rationalism.” Tijdens de laatste jaren van haar leven was Sara Coleridge invalide. Kort voor haar dood vermaakte zij zich door het schrijven van een kleine autobiografie voor haar dochter. Daarmee kwam zij slechts tot haar negende jaar. De biografie werd voltooid door haar dochter en gepubliceerd in 1873, samen met enkele van haar brieven, onder de titel “Memoires en brieven van Sara Coleridge. “Sara Coleridge overleed in Londen op 3 mei 1852.

From “Phantasmion” - One Face Alone

ONE face alone, one face alone,
These eyes require;
But, when that long’d-for sight is shown,
What fatal fire
Shoots through my veins a keen and liquid flame,
That melts each fibre of my wasting frame!

One voice alone, one voice alone,
I pine to hear;
But, when its meek mellifluous tone
Usurps mine ear,
Those slavish chains about my soul are wound,
Which ne’er, till death itself, can be unbound.

One gentle hand, one gentle hand,
I fain would hold;
But, when it seems at my command,
My own grows cold;
Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon,
Like lilies drooping ’mid the blaze of noon.

He Came Unlook'd For

HE came unlook’d for, undesir’d,
A sunrise in the northern sky,
More than the brightest dawn admir’d,
To shine and then forever fly.

His love, conferr’d without a claim,
Perchance was like the fitful blaze,
Which lives to light a steadier flame,
And, while that strengthens, fast decays.

Glad fawn along the forest springing,
Gay birds that breeze-like stir the leaves,
Why hither haste, no message bringing,
To solace one that deeply grieves?

Thou star that dost the skies adorn,
So brightly heralding the day,
Bring one more welcome than the morn,
Or still in night’s dark prison stay.

Sara Coleridge (23 december 1802 - 3 mei 1852)

23-12-2013 om 00:00 geschreven door Romenu